


doux rêves

by transkylo (captainandor)



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Brief discussion of flowers and the colour yellow, Drabble, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 23:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11474355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainandor/pseuds/transkylo
Summary: "A sweet, fragrant flower," the Chevalier says, tapping a finger against the tip of Philippe's nose, "Beautiful-""Yellow." Philippe interrupts."Yellow is a perfectly respectable colour, darling."





	doux rêves

**Author's Note:**

> After having bingewatched all of Versailles in one week, I wanted to write something light and fluffy to distract myself from all the angst in S2.

_The night sky is never truly dark, not in Paris, where the fires never quite burn out and on the eve of celebration, fireworks shoot up and explode in a miraculous display of light, sound, and colour, heralding their King. Crowds of nobles stand in the lush Palace gardens, bedecked in fine silks and expensive jewels, necks craned upwards to watch the magnificent display. The Chevalier stands among them, quite alone and anonymous in the hustle and bustle of the party, though for once he doesn’t mind._

_Through the noise of the display, Bontemps’ voice can be heard, announcing the entrance of the King – Le Roi Soliel. Tonight, though, the Chevalier feels as though his title should be Le Roi des Étoiles, named for the beauty of the night._

_The crowd turns, eager to see their King, bedecked as he is in all his finery, coat embroidered in gold and green, crown of laurels atop his head, gold in contrast with near black, like the stars that burn endlessly in the sky._

_He makes his Royal entrance, followed closely behind by his brother and the Spanish princess. A cheer goes up as he takes his seat, crossing his legs elegantly and reclining to watch the display as it glows even brighter for his presence._

_“Long live the King!” comes a cry from somewhere behind him, and the crowds join in, “Long live King Philippe!”_

When he opens his eyes, the Chevalier can’t quite recall where he is. The room seems vaguely familiar – even in the gloom of early morning before the shutters have been opened – but not wholly, and so he blinks the sleep from his eyes, letting his sight focus. A soft, sleepy noise to his side draws his attention, and he turns his head, smiling to himself when he sees the Prince, still fast asleep on the pillow next to him. He turns onto his side, lifting his hand and thumbing at Philippe's cheekbone, tracing a gentle path down to his jawline. 

Philippe’s eyes flutter open at the touch, and his lip twitches up into a lazy smile.

"Henceforth," the Chevalier says, unprompted, "Every day that I do not touch you, taste you, feel you," he pauses, swiping the pad of his thumb against Philippe's lower lip, "Will be a day of death, and mourning." 

Philippe's fingers encircle the Chevalier's wrist, gently guiding his hand away so that Philippe can close the gap between them, pressing their lips together. The Chevalier kisses him back enthusiastically, pressing forward so that the lines of their bodies are touching, slotted comfortably together beneath the sheets. 

"You say the sweetest things," Philippe says, voice still husky with sleep, drawing back only so far that he can speak, though their foreheads remain touching, "When you think your words will get you into my bed," he's teasing, but the Chevalier won't let this one slide. 

"I'm already in your bed,” he counters, “and besides. I mean it. Earnestly. I am yours, till the day you tire of me. Beyond then, even.”

Philippe looks up, meeting his eyes. 

"That's quite a promise to make." He says.

"It's quite sincere, believe me, mignonette." 

Philippe smiles at the endearment, eyebrow quirking, "You would name me for a flower?" 

"A sweet, fragrant flower," the Chevalier says, tapping a finger against the tip of Philippe's nose, "Beautiful-" 

"Yellow." Philippe interrupts. 

"Yellow is a perfectly respectable colour, darling." 

"And what, then, might you be?" Philippe wonders aloud, adopting a thoughtful expression, "Ah! I have just the thing. Jonquille. The Narcissus. Beautiful, vain, and...also yellow." He grins. 

"Now you're just being cruel," the Chevalier pouts, "Though you did call me beautiful, so I suppose I mustn’t complain too much."

"The yellow quite matches your hair." Philippe adds. 

"You do tease me so.” The Chevalier says, leaning up on his forearms, grinning down at the Prince below him. Philippe settles back into the comfort of the downy pillows, hair fanned around him like a dark halo, stark contrast to the white of the sheets. 

“I mean it well,” Philippe replies, bumping their noses together. The Chevalier loves his wit and sharp tongue, loves him _for_ it, even as it matches his own in its acerbity. 

“I had a dream about you,” he tells the Prince, winding a long lock of dark hair around his index finger, soft, like spun silk on a wheel. 

Philippe’s eyebrows raise, curious, “I do hope it wasn’t a nightmare,” 

“Far from it,” the Chevalier promises. He closes the space between them, slotting their lips together once again in a kiss that is chaste, yet no less passionate than the ones they had shared the night before. He thinks of his dream; Philippe sat upon his throne, a display of wealth and beauty for all of France to see. The Chevalier by his side. The two of them, ruling France together. 

The moment is lost when there comes a loud knock on the doors. The Chevalier draws back, reluctant, as the two of them look over expectantly. 

"Your Highness?" comes a deep, gruff voice from the hallway beyond the Prince’s rooms. The Chevalier recognises it as Bontemps, the King’s Valet. 

Philippe tips his head back and sighs, sending the Chevalier an apologetic look. 

"What is it, Bontemps?" he asks, as the Chevalier leans back onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as the doors open in one smooth motion, and the valet steps in, hands clasped behind his back. 

Bontemps’ eyes linger briefly on the Chevalier, though to his credit, his expression betrays nothing. He fixes his look on the Prince, still reclining on his pillows, sheets pooled around his waist. "Your presence is required in the council chamber, your Highness." he says. 

"What for?" 

"His Majesty did not specify a reason, only that he wished you to be there." 

Philippe groans, rubbing a hand across his face as he sits up. "And what Louis wants, he gets. Very well." he waves a hand at the Valet, dismissing him. Bontemps bows on his retreat, the guards pulling the doors closed behind him. 

"I suppose I should go and see what my brother wants," Philippe says, turning. He looks apologetic as he brushes a stray lock of blonde hair behind the Chevalier's ear, "Will I find you later?" 

The Chevalier takes his hand, presses a trail of kisses along the back of it. "Darling, I will be waiting for you," he says, then flings himself back onto the mountain of pillows, arms spread wide, "Right here. The bed shall be _quite_ lovely and warm upon your return." 

Philippe smiles, slipping out from beneath the sheet and coverlet, stooping to collect his discarded clothes from the floor. The room is a mess, the Chevalier notes, from his vantage point up on the bed, empty goblets of wine and discarded plates of food, clothes, shoes, and stockings strewn across almost every surface. It looks like someone had thrown an orgy, and yet it had been just the two of them. All signs of a night well spent. 

Philippe dresses himself quickly, not bothering to fasten his waistcoat or properly tie his cravat, before he rounds the bed, pausing at the Chevalier’s side, "It’s still early,” he says, "Get some sleep, I'll be back later." 

He dips down to anoint a chaste kiss first to the Chevalier's lips, then another to his forehead. 

The Chevalier squints up at him, feeling a curious warmth blossoming within his chest. "I'll be dreaming of you, darling." He promises. 

Philippe’s expression softens. "I should hope so." 

The door closes softly upon his, and the room falls silent once more. The Chevalier settles down under the blankets, rolling over to his side and inhaling deeply, the lingering scent of Philippe's perfume filling his lungs. He wonders how he’d ever spend a night alone, wake up without Philippe’s warmth, ever again. It’s intoxicating, and already he’s hooked. He smiles to himself, and closes his eyes. 

_La vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve_ , he thinks, as sleep takes its hold.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote at the end translates as; life is a long sleep, and love is its dream. 
> 
> Also, while mignonette _is_ a flower, I believe it also means 'cute'. (And if you read into flower symbolism, it means worth. Let me cry over that for a while).
> 
> If any of the French is incorrect, please do feel free to correct me. English is my first language, and my French skills are far from perfect.


End file.
